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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25651897">U Candeja</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon'>sheafrotherdon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Love, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:00:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>710</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25651897</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Jerusalem, he had lit the candles at the altar—tall beeswax tapers provided by the last wills of the wealthy</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>272</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>U Candeja</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The blackouts are frequent enough that there are candles scattered throughout the house—stubs of wax in a dozen different candlesticks, candles jammed into empty wine bottles, candle-holders Nicky hasn’t seen in a century at least.  He lights one of the candles on the dresser in their bedroom, moves it to the window for Joe to see as he winds his way back through darkened streets.  It burns steadily, a tiny light amid totalizing darkness, and Nicky watches it for a long moment before he turns to light another.</p>
<p>Before Jerusalem, he had lit the candles at the altar—tall beeswax tapers provided by the last wills of the wealthy, treasuring the simple alchemy of flame against wick, watching light spring up into the darkness.  The flames guided the departed, he thought, or perhaps concentrated the prayers of the living, a focal point for the minds of those who brought their suffering and sorrow, confusion, and joy to the sanctuary.  The candles smelled of nothing, and in the absence of the stink of tallow rose other scents—the faint remnants of incense; the clean scent of new rain.</p>
<p>The rituals of the altar had changed in nine hundred years.  He remembers the first time he entered a church and found candles to be had in exchange for pennies, light upon light in remembrance, in prayer, in hope.  He had offered his own coin, lit a candle, and let memories tumble into the words of Latin he murmured without consciously summoning them to his tongue.  He had smiled, and offered thanks for Yusuf while he knelt.</p>
<p><i>What’s it like?</i> Nile had asked two days before. <i>To love someone for nine hundred years?</i></p>
<p>He’d let Joe answer, watching his hands, his eyes as he spoke, knowing he would find there the heart of their being together, beyond and beneath the poetry of his words.  Nicky had no words of his own, offering only “It is easy,” which was true, and meant of course that all difficulty was worth it.  He saw as much in Joe’s easy gaze.</p>
<p>But. . . It is like a candle, he should have said.  Kindled, it burns at the heart of my being and illuminates all else.  It is protection against darkness, and if I should pray, the means by which my prayer reaches beyond myself.  It cannot be extinguished, though wind and water have tried.  In my moments of greatest loneliness, it reminds me of his grounding touch, and in the times of greatest joy, it is the very warmth I feel.  It needs no ornamentation, neither gold nor silver—it burns when hope is dim and when faith is rewarded, steady in each, the same through time.  I was once flint and he was stone and now he is the means by which I see the path before me.  That is what it is like.</p>
<p>He could not say as much to Nile, and poured himself into showing Joe by touch that night, with kisses and the drift of his hands, coaxing out of Joe such sounds, such pleasure, that even now Nicky’s stirred by the thought of it.</p>
<p>“Nicky?”  Joe calls from the kitchen, and then there are footfalls on the stairs.  Joe pushes open the door, smiles, damp with rain—it shows in his hair, on his shoulders—and carrying food for them both.  “You lit a candle.”</p>
<p>Nicky feels the answering smile on his own face. “Always,” he says, and crosses the room to take Joe’s face between his hands, presses a kiss to his lips.  “Always,” he whispers.</p>
<p>Joe sets down the food, tugs Nicky closer with fingers that twist in his shirt, and kisses him again.  His mouth is hot, and Nicky shivers at the touch of Joe's tongue, the drag of his beard against Nicky’s cheek.</p>
<p>“I love you,” Nicky says when they break apart, bodies still touching, his hand at the nape of Joe’s neck. His smallest finger dips beneath the collar of Joe’s t-shirt, and a full-body tremor runs down Joe’s spine. “Still, <i>mi amu</i>.”</p>
<p>And Joe takes him to bed, the food forgotten, paints his body with an artist’s hands, fingertips dipped in candlelight, until Nicky’s words burn away once more and his body twists as he comes.</p>
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